The Fury of Rachel Monette

by Peter Abrahams

  “That’s out of the question,” Rachel said angrily.

  “Is it? You may change your mind after a few days.” They both looked at the bowl on the floor. “I’ll bring you something to eat,” Madame Ratelle said more gently. She turned toward the guard to be sure he was still asleep, and quickly took a small folded envelope from between her breasts.

  “From Rashid,” she said, handing it to Rachel. Rachel saw jealous suspicion in her eyes. “He insisted I deliver it to you.” The envelope was sealed. Madame Ratelle waited for Rachel to open it, but she put it in her pocket instead.

  Madame Ratelle shouted at the guard. Wearily he got up and unlocked the cell. Madame Ratelle took out her plastic lighter. “When you have read it use this. I don’t want the boy beaten again.” She stepped outside.

  “Where is my jeep?” Rachel asked before she went away.

  Madame Ratelle gave her a knowing smile. “In front of the hotel. The keys are in the ignition and there is a full can of gasoline inside.”

  The guard turned the key in the lock and stared through the bars at Rachel. The features of his face were little, except for the ears which were large and stuck out from the skull. His head was too small for his pear-shaped body. He turned away and walked across the courtyard. On the other side he blew his nostrils empty one at a time and lay down on the stones. When he was asleep Rachel opened the envelope. The note was hand-written in English.

  Dear Madame (she read)

  I am so very very sory. Do not eat the food they give you. It will make you sick. Jeanne will bring food. That place is not a bearial place. I have herd of an old man who nos.

  I will pray that you are soon free.

  Rashid

  Rachel lit the corners of the letter and the envelope and dropped them burning to the floor. She lay on the pallet and slept. She dreamed of the well. It was the same as before except that she could hear Adam calling her from far below.

  The turning of the key in the lock woke her. A short man wearing a white robe and a white skull cap was standing in the doorway. The guard went away without locking him in. He took a position in the middle of the courtyard and stood alertly.

  Rachel sat up. The white-robed man watched her. He had large intelligent dark eyes and a neatly trimmed white beard. His skin was almost completely free of wrinkles. He could have been forty, or sixty. Under the robe his shoulders were muscular.

  “I am the caid,” he said in French. “That is something like a mayor,” he explained, “but more like a chief. Madame Ratelle says that you wished to see me.” His tone was polite and slightly pedagogical, like a doctor’s.

  “I want some explanations.”

  “Explanations?”

  “Why am I here? Have I been charged with a crime? Which one of your men stole my money? Those will do for a start.” Rachel’s voice rose and the guard stepped forward. The caid motioned him back.

  “I am sure none of my men would take your money, madame. But the law prohibits prisoners from having any.” He spoke in a way that implied he would change it if he could.

  “Then I should be given a receipt. That is how these things are done in civilized countries.”

  The caid’s head jerked back as if his hair had been yanked. His eyes narrowed. Without turning he spoke a curt command to the guard, who ran off immediately. Rachel and the caid watched each other until the guard returned. He held up a hand full of coins and bills and traveler’s checks. The caid gestured toward Rachel. The guard entered the cell and handed it all to her. A coin fell to the floor. It landed on edge and rolled across the stones to the corner, where it disappeared into the little hole. The caid said something angrily to the guard. The guard walked to the corner, stooped and fished about with his hand for the coin. When he found it he wiped it on his trousers and brought it back to Rachel on his palm. She took it. The guard looked at her feet. The caid dismissed him and he resumed his post.

  “Now, madame,” said the caid in a flat voice, “I, too, would like an explanation.”

  “There is nothing to explain. I went to look at the desert. I did not know we were near Algeria. I wasn’t even aware that there was trouble between the two countries.”

  “Why did you dig a hole in the sand?”

  Rachel suddenly felt the whole story begin to well up from her chest. But as she opened her mouth her eyes rested on the white beard and she realized that the man was probably old enough to have been caid in 1942. “To see if there was water,” she said.

  “Were you thirsty?” the caid asked in a neutral voice.

  “I was curious. My guide told me that the nomads often look for water near those dried riverbeds. I wanted to see if it was true.”

  “Unfortunately, Lieutenant Moutassim reports that you have desecrated a burial ground.” He sighed. “Moroccans are a very religious people.” It could have been a statement of fact but she took it as a threat. He called to the guard, who brought a wooden office chair and placed it in the cell. The caid hitched up his robe and sat down. He wore leather sandals on his stubby feet.

  “May I see your passport, madame?”

  “Haven’t you seen it already?” Rachel asked. He ignored her and held out his hand. She gave it to him. He took a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles from a pocket in the side of his robe, put them on and examined the passport. His face assumed a puzzled expression.

  “Excuse me, madame, but what is the English word for religion?”

  “It’s the same.”

  “Your passport does not include that category on the page devoted to personal description. Why is that?”

  “Under American law, government and religion are kept separate.”

  “How strange,” said the caid. “Is that, too, a mark of civilization?”

  “Some people think so,” Rachel said. The caid’s eyes told her that they weren’t his kind of people. He handed her the passport.

  “May I ask what is your religion, madame?”

  “I am not a religious person.”

  “That may be true,” he said, watching her face closely. “Here in Morocco there are many Muslims who say they are not religious. But if you ask them they will tell you that their religion is Islam. It is in that sense that I am asking you.”

  “In America we don’t see it that way,” Rachel replied.

  “You are a Jew,” he said, bringing his hand down sharply on his thigh. “Why not admit it? It is nothing to be ashamed of. The Prophet said that the Jews are a special people.” The caid began to adopt his lecturing tone. “A quarter of a million Jews used to live in this country, side by side with us. In my own lifetime. Their lives and property were protected by law.” A brief smile passed across his face in memory of this golden age, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Now, of course, most of them have gone to Israel. And despite Zionist efforts to silence them we have heard that they are clamoring to return.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Rachel said.

  “Of course you don’t.” He leaned forward. “Why would you? You are a paid agent of the Zionists.”

  “You’re crazy,” Rachel said. “I’ve never even set foot in Israel.”

  He laughed sarcastically. “Do you take me for a fool?” he asked. She saw again the intelligence in his eyes. He was no fool, but if he believed what he was saying he was far more dangerous. “The Zionists have a gift for strategy and tactics,” he went on. “How clever to send a woman. If she is captured she will be dealt with less harshly.” He touched her knee with the tip of his forefinger. “They do not know Lieutenant Moutassim,” he said.

  Rachel drew back. “I want to telephone the American ambassador. He is a friend of mine.”

  “Very well. I will place the call. What name shall I ask for?”

  Rachel glared at him.

  “The American ambassador to Morocco is a woman,” the caid said.

  Rachel felt herself blush at being caught in the lie, and at her stupidity. She couldn’t afford to be stupid.

  “
I meant friend in the sense of countryman. I apologize for my bad French.”

  “On the contrary, madame, it is excellent. You speak it far better than any American I have met. Far better.” The caid stood and smoothed his robe. “Thank you for this interview,” he said. The guard came to carry the chair away.

  Rachel got up from the pallet. “But what is happening? Am I charged with a crime?”

  The caid turned to her. “You will be in due course.”

  “Then I want to see a lawyer.”

  “One will be provided at the proper time.”

  The caid stepped outside and the guard locked the cell. As the caid was walking away Rachel suddenly crossed the floor, poked her head through the bars and called to his back. “If I am tried as a spy where would the trial take place?”

  He stopped walking, turned and stroked his beard. “Possibly Marrakech. Perhaps Rabat.”

  “But not here?”

  His eyes tried to probe hers. “No, not for something of that magnitude,” he said finally.

  “Then I am a spy,” Rachel shouted at him. “Do you hear me? A spy.”

  He left the courtyard but not before Rachel saw the worried look appear in the big brown eyes. The guard went to his favorite spot, lay down and made himself comfortable. Rachel sat on the pallet and waited for nightfall.

  17

  Evening. Hunger grew in her stomach. Thirst dried her tongue. But Madame Ratelle did not come. A crust of flies formed over the earthenware bowl. They were big brown flies that made no buzzing noise when they flew, moving around the cell in silent smears. In the shadows the guard smoked a cigarette, resting his back on the far wall of the courtyard. Rachel lay on the pallet.

  She awoke with a start, and went to the bars of the cell. The sky was black, except for the strange moon, a reclining yellow crescent too lazy to get up, and the cold white stars as far away as far can be. In the darkness of the courtyard she saw the light of the guard’s cigarette. She realized that the naked bulb in the ceiling had gone out.

  Rachel listened carefully for sounds from the jail or the town beyond but she heard nothing. She felt through her handbag for the bank notes. By holding them close to her face and squinting she was able to count out two hundred and fifty dirhams.

  “Guard,” she called in a hoarse whisper. There was no response. “Come here,” she said in a louder voice. The cigarette burned in the night. Rachel tapped her wedding band on the steel bar and called again. The little fire moved. It rose a foot or two and slowly approached the cell.

  The guard stood a few feet from the bars of the cell. She could see the vague shape of his khaki uniform, but his face was lost in the night. He held the cigarette at his side. It coated his hand in red light. It was a very powerful hand for a man like him.

  “I will give you two hundred and fifty dirhams to let me go,” Rachel whispered. He didn’t answer. She mimed the act of unlocking the door, and held up the money. She hoped he could see her better than she could see him. “Two hundred and fifty dirhams,” she repeated, offering the money between the bars. “Please.”

  Without haste the hand lifted the cigarette to his mouth. It spread red light across his face. The hard eyes shone with it, but the shine came from inner fires. They were the eyes of Lieutenant Moutassim.

  With his free hand Moutassim took Rachel’s wrist and pulled. Her face struck the steel with a force that made her dizzy. She tried to draw away but he held her tightly with enormous strength, her breasts crushed against the bars. He raised the little fire and touched the back of her hand with it. She dropped the bills. He released her wrist and she stepped back out of reach. He kicked the money onto the stone floor.

  Lieutenant Moutassim withdrew into the night. He began pacing the courtyard, rapidly at first and then more slowly. Huddled on the pallet Rachel listened to him breathing and watched the glow of his cigarette. She did not take her eyes off it. After a while he walked across the courtyard and did not return. Rachel heard a door close, and then another, very faint.

  She got off the pallet and gathered the money from the floor. As she replaced it in her handbag she thought she heard a footstep in the courtyard, very close. She whirled and was hit in the face by the narrow beam of a flashlight. It was shut off immediately, leaving Rachel blind in the darkness. Her hands found the heavy bowl. She picked it up and moved softly to the rear of the cell.

  “Madame Monette?” whispered a male voice that she remembered hearing before. She didn’t answer. “It is I,” came the whisper. “DePoe. I have a key.”

  She heard the key scrape in the lock, and felt DePoe in the cell. “Where are your things?” he said. “We must hurry.”

  Rachel still held the bowl in her hands. “How did you get the key?”

  “I bribed the guard.” His face was very near but she couldn’t see it. She smelled toothpaste and onions on his breath. “We must go. I will explain later.”

  “But the guard isn’t here. Lieutenant Moutassim took his place.”

  There was a silence before DePoe said very quietly, “I didn’t see him. But in that case we are in great danger. Quickly.”

  Rachel put down the bowl and reached for her suitcase and handbag. She felt DePoe’s hand on her back. He guided her out of the cell and across the courtyard. He opened a small door in the wall and led her outside.

  They were in an unpaved unlit street. A small open jeep was parked on the far side. DePoe took Rachel’s suitcase and handbag and wedged them behind the seat.

  “Get in,” he said. She hesitated. The moonlight cast a faint gleam on DePoe’s bald head but left his eyes in shadow. “He will kill you,” he whispered urgently. Rachel got in.

  DePoe turned the key in the ignition with a delicate touch, as if that would make the engine catch more quietly. Without switching on the lights he drove quickly through a series of dark streets bordered by high clay walls. The last of these alleys opened quite suddenly on the flat plain to the west of town.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I want to see what you found in the desert,” DePoe said. He pressed on the accelerator. His left hand reached for the headlight switch, hesitated and returned to the steering wheel. He hunched forward as far as his soft belly would allow.

  “What makes you think I found something in the desert?”

  “Logic. You told me at the hotel that you were interested in some ruins from the Second World War. I’d never heard of such ruins. But the same day you are brought back by Lieutenant Moutassim and thrown in jail. Therefore you found something that someone did not want found.”

  The jeep sped across the sand. In front of them the moon hung low in the skyline like a cupped hand bearing an unknown offering.

  “Besides,” Depoe added after a while, “I am staying with the caid. You have managed to make him very upset.”

  Rachel turned in her seat, trying to see his face. But the night painted every shape in featureless gray and shaded all the edges in black; except for the moon and its golden reflection on the curve of DePoe’s bald head.

  “How well do you know him?” Rachel asked.

  “Who?” DePoe replied after a pause.

  “The caid.”

  “Not well. I met him for the first time last week, when I arrived. The university arranged that I would be his guest.”

  “What university?”

  “Aix-en-Provence.”

  “Rashid says you taught in Paris.”

  “He is incorrect.”

  DePoe glanced in the rearview mirror. “It must be safe by now,” he said. He switched on the headlights. They drilled an expanding cone of light across the desert. In the distance a glowing pair of topazes hovered above the sand. When the jeep drew nearer Rachel saw that they were the eyes of a large brown hare. It bounded out of sight in two leaps.

  “Can you remember the way?” DePoe asked.

  “I don’t understand why you are doing this,” Rachel said. “They can easily find out you were involved.”

&
nbsp; “It won’t matter. By dawn we can be at the airport in Marrakech. When they realize what has happened it will be too late.”

  “But why are you taking the risk?” Rachel pressed him.

  “Shall we say it’s my job?” he replied. “I am an employee of the government of France.”

  “Doing what?”

  “France still has many interests in North Africa. I help protect them.”

  “So you aren’t really a professor?”

  “But I am. Anthropology. It’s been my passion since childhood. And it provides an excellent cover.”

  “What is France’s interest in this?”

  DePoe sighed. “How can I know until I’ve seen what you’ve found?”

  Rachel told him the way.

  They rode in silence. Gravity tugged the moon lower and lower in the sky until it sank from sight. No more topaz glowed in the yellow tunnel. The cold night air flowed over Rachel’s face, powdering her hair with fine dust. DePoe found the oued and followed it through the dunes. They rose up on all sides like ocean waves frozen during a midnight storm.

  The yellow beams touched the face of the outcrop on the far side of the plain. “Over there,” Rachel said. They swept across the sand in a short arc. The pile of broken cement was gone. So was the earth that Rachel had dug out of the hole. And the hole.

  “Stop,” she said. She got out and walked toward the outcrop, examining the ground where the hole had been. “Come closer,” Rachel called to DePoe. The light grew stronger, throwing Rachel’s shadow against the rock. It also cast lines of thin parallel shadows across a patch of sand not much bigger than a pitcher’s mound. They resembled miniature furrows.

  “Someone’s been over it with a rake,” Rachel said over the sound of the motor. DePoe shut it off and walked over to Rachel. In front of his stomach he held out a shovel like a ceremonial object.

  “I hope you won’t think me ungentlemanly,” he said, “but I have a heart condition.”

  Rachel hesitated.

  “I have to see with my own eyes,” DePoe said patiently. “Otherwise I can’t help you.”